“They’re criminals.” The words come out harsher than I intend.
She freezes. “And what the fuck are you?”
“I’m the fucking Pakhan,” I growl, advancing on her again. “And you just left the house I put you in to visit a warehouse full of thugs. Why, because you’re fucking Fuentes?”
She stiffens, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing again. “Yeah, in the ten minutes between the time I got there and the time you showed up.”
“Then why the fuck were you there?” I demand, voice dropping lower. “Why sneak out? Why run back to that shithole when you have everything you need right here?”
She laughs—a bitter, sharp sound that scrapes down my spine. “Everything I need? You mean clothes you picked, food you bought, a house you own? But I’m not allowed to leave.”
“You go, I go, Ayla. That’s what you said, that’s what youwanted.”
“And yet, where the fuck wereyou?” She steps closer, defiant. “Because the only reason I could leave was because you didn’t take me where you went!”
“I was with my family—”
“And I was with mine!” she bites.
“They’re going to get you killed,” I mutter. “Or worse.”
Ayla’s eyes narrow. “Worse than what? Being thrown in a trunk? Being dragged away like property?”
I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin, see the pulse jumping in her throat. But she doesn’t shrink.
“I put you in that trunk,” I say slowly, “because I was five seconds from putting a bullet in Fuentes skull for looking at you like he owned you first.”
Her breath catches. I watch the realization spread across her face—the anger in my actions wasn’t just possessiveness.
“Ricky is my friend,” she says, quieter now. “That’s it.”
“The way he stepped in front of you says otherwise.”
“The way he stepped in front of me is what friends do.” Her voice wavers slightly. “They protect each other.”
I lean in, bracing my hands on the desk on either side of her hips, caging her. “And what am I doing?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “I don’t know Maksim, what are you doing?”
The question lands like a blade between my ribs.
“You’re ruining me,” the words scrape from my throat.
“Then let me go.”
My fingers curl against the wood. “Don’t say that.”
Her face hardens. “Let me go.”
My jaw flexes, anger and hurt twisting together. Before I can stop myself, I’ve got her face in my hands, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her chin up.
“Tell me you regret me,” I challenge, voice rough. “Tell me you want to go back to that warehouse and back to that fucking life. Tell me you don’t want this.”
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes search mine.
“I just want a choice,” she whispers finally.
I press my forehead to hers, breathing in that fucking sweet scent slowly. “I don’t think I can give you that, but I’m…”
